A Little Softer
by LoquaciousQuark
Summary: A quiet, snowy evening, a Christmas tree, a dog, and copious amounts of alcohol.


**AN:** For locketofyourhair, whose birthday was the 18th, and whom I owe a great deal for the kindness she's shown me this past year. Not just with the pick-me-up ficlets (which are still some of my favorite go-to reads), but because she came out of nowhere to be one of the warmest, most thoughtful people on my dash. You're amazing, lovely!

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><p>Hawke's crooning in the kitchen again.<p>

He can hear it from the couch, the rattle of glasses just loud enough over the radio music to concern him, though that none of the lyrics have been replaced by profanity is a good sign. Another dangerous clink and Hawke's dog lifts his head from where he lies sprawled by the tree, but a moment later Hawke emerges herself into the soft, festive warmth of their living room, grinning, a steaming mug in each hand and no obvious sign of injury.

"Oh, holy night," she sings as she hands him his mug, harmonizing with the radio, "it is the night where I spike all the drinks."

"It sounded as though you were having trouble." Fenris sniffs dubiously at his coffee and Hawke laughs, flipping off the overhead lights with her elbow to leave the room lit only by the multicolored lights of the Christmas tree and the handful of squat candles Hawke had set earlier on the coffee table. It's almost enough to soften the garish purple of her oversized sweater, though even in the dimness the gold and silver snowflakes glint with every gesture.

"Couldn't get the top off the whiskey." She collapses to the couch beside him without an ounce of care, jostling his coffee dangerously, but Fenris has too much practice to be surprised by such things after all this time and he moves both her mug and his to the end table until she's settled again, her bare feet curled on the couch beside her, blanket thrown over them both where she's tucked herself against him. "Thanks."

Fenris lets out a soft breath of laughter as he returns her cocoa, her fingers brushing his in an affection that is still not easy despite its familiarity. "Is there anything _but _liquor in mine?"

"You said you liked it strong."

"Strong, yes. This is…"

"Fortified. Sturdy. Stout."

"Unmistakably so," Fenris says, and braces himself for another sip as Hawke laughs.

They're quiet for a few minutes after that, the radio still playing, the paper star atop their tree glittering with reflected green and pink and gold. One of Bethany's childhood school projects, Hawke had told him, weathered a bit over the years but still carefully unpacked from its aged newsprint every December, place of honor rotated through the family's various houses and apartments as they'd scattered with college, adulthood and careers no longer sharing a city's borders. He cannot pretend to understand such things, but it means a great deal to Hawke that they have won the star this year, and for her sake he is glad of it.

The small, awkwardly-painted peacock hanging proudly just beneath the star, though, is frankly and unapologetically hideous. Hawke's nine-year-old artistry had not compared to her sister's, and not even Fenris's dubious sentimentality can pretend otherwise. But he'd brought no ornaments to this thing they'd built between them and fewer pleasant holiday memories besides, and so Hawke had smirked and hung the preposterous bird over his half-hearted objections.

"Oh," Hawke says softly, cutting through the low murmur of angels on the radio. "It's snowing, Fenris."

"So it is." They can't see much of the yard past the Christmas tree occupying most of the front window, but even so Fenris can make out the heavy white snow dropping silently behind it, the flakes nearest them thrown into color and light by the decorations. "It wasn't supposed to snow until tomorrow."

"It'll be all right. They'll have the roads clear by morning, and my family will be here by lunch. Not that they'd be stopped even if the drifts were six feet."

Fenris snorts. "I do not think your mother would permit the weather such insolence."

"At the holidays? Not a chance. She'd have Dad and Carver pushing the car the whole way if she had to."

He shakes his head, smiling into his coffee, and when Hawke leans her head against his shoulder it seems an easy thing to drop his arm around her and pull her closer. He likes Hawke's family, despite how little he understands of them, and she has been looking forward to their arrival for weeks. She'd been up a tree with the net lights when Bethany had called to say even she'd be able to make it this year, and Hawke had nearly toppled off the ladder trying to get to Fenris and his phone. "Somehow I suspect your father would enjoy that."

"The story of it, absolutely." Hawke laughs into his neck, a burst of warm air, and then she presses her mouth to his jaw suddenly enough that Fenris startles. "Can I give you your present now?"

"So early?"

"Well, I got you a few things, but it's going to be hectic for days once they all come, and I—let me give this one thing to you now while I'm thinking about it, while it's just us."

"As you like," Fenris says slowly, and Hawke slides her empty mug to the coffee table before throwing off the blanket. "I trust this is not last year's abomination."

"That sweater _lit up_, Fenris. It was amazing."

"It was appalling."

"Appallingly amazing."

Fenris laughs. Hawke shakes her head where she kneels beside the tree, and without meaning to Fenris finds himself watching her. The lights play through her dark hair as she bends forward, dance across her face; at her side Toby lets out a low woof and a heavy sigh, exerting himself just enough to nose Hawke's hand for scratches between the packages wrapped beneath the tree. She obliges with one hand for a moment, idly scruffing his ears as she rifles through a sea of gilded paper; at last she seizes a small, flat box wrapped in red and silver candy canes and pushes to her feet again.

"Here," she says, and thrusts it into his hands.

He waits for her to resettle beside him before turning it over. Not terribly heavy, but hard, and on the back in Sharpie: his name surrounded by a dozen messy hearts. "A book?"

"Safe guess, considering, but no. I'll give you a hint if you like."

"You're the one who enjoys guessing games."

"It's not a book. It is also not red, and not in the least bit practical. It is, in fact, probably the least practical thing I've ever bought you."

"The sweater glowed, Hawke."

"Very practically."

Her cheeks are pink from the effort to keep back her laughter, and despite himself Fenris yields to his own curiosity, sliding his thumb under the inexpertly-taped seal to tear it away. Black velvet, and a hinge—a picture frame, he realizes, and turns it over.

Ah—

He remembers this day. Early autumn, in the park with Toby; Hawke had brought her camera for the changing leaves and they'd run into Isabela by chance halfway through the avenue. Isabela had taken the camera at some point during the conversation, idly snapping photos of whatever caught her fancy, and the dog had been romping through them all, overjoyed at the outing and company alike. But at some point she must have seen this, must have…

He stands with his back against the low, dark-wooded fence in the picture, the memory of the planks rough against his bare palms and the wind cold even through his jacket. Hawke had been on the fence's other side, fetching a stick for Toby; in the photo she has just returned to the fence to join him, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the top rail, the end of her checked scarf trailing down past her elbow. Their shoulders just brush; she's looking up at him and he's glancing down at her, his white hair and her dark both tousled by the wind—

He looks happy, strange enough—but she looks _beautiful_, and when Fenris looks up from the photo she's wearing the same smile, just as bright, and something in his chest aches at the sight of it. He says her name; he can think of nothing else.

"I know it bothers you," she says, and her fingers find his to thread through them. "That you don't have any good Christmas memories, especially since this holiday's as much about—nostalgia as anything else. I thought if you liked we could… I don't know. Start now."

"Hawke. I don't…"

"Besides, I loved this picture from the moment I saw it. I think it's a perfect proof of the fact that I absolutely adore you."

His stomach jolts, as it always does when she says such things so effortlessly, and when he can bear to look at her again again she's got that same easy affection in her face, glowing as if she knows exactly what she does to him. "_Hawke_," he tries a third time, and when her mouth twitches in dangerous amusement he sets his jaw. He _will _explain himself. "This means…a great deal to me. Thank you."

"You're very welcome," she says, her eyes twinkling, and when she kisses him it is as much a relief as pleasure, because in this at least he can express his gratitude without such clumsy things as words. She tastes like cocoa, and more rum than he expects—his was not the only mug dosed liberally—and when he wraps an arm around her shoulders she slips willingly into his lap, her hands spreading across his chest, her thumb catching on the top button of his shirt. He likes the feel of her here, in his arms; he likes it more when she smiles into his kiss, and when she slides her fingertips gently up his throat to his scarred chin and then the base of his ear he doesn't try to keep back his low hum of pleasure.

Hawke kisses him again, soft and slow, and once more, a long draw that pulls out the last remnants of care to leave him wholly content. Eventually she draws back, pecks the end of his nose; he smiles and she grins and tucks her head into the crook of his neck, and Fenris lets out a deep, emptying sigh. Toby has risen from his sprawl to rest his chin on the window's low sill, little more than a low shadow with a curve of colored lights along his collar, a brighter gleam where Hawke tied the golden sleigh bell two days ago. His stump of a tail wags just hard enough to shake a low branch heavy with a ceramic gingerbread man. Even the candles have burned lower, softer, multicolored wax pooled and melted in the bottom of the dish, and here and there ornaments nestled between the branches flicker back a reflection of their warmth.

Another quiet laugh into his neck. "It's very saccharine, isn't it?" Hawke murmurs, and hums along with the tail end of The First Noel as she smoothes her hand across his stomach, silver snowflakes from her purple sweater glinting at the motion. "Absolutely disgusting."

Fenris smirks, pulls the forgotten blanket over them both, leans back into the corner of the couch until Hawke's legs have crooked beside him again and he can feel the weight of her settled against him, a ground and an anchor when he did not know he needed one. The picture frame lies face-up on the table at his knees in a mirror of peace he had not expected, still can hardly bear. "I think you enjoy it."

It's a whisper he barely hears: "Maybe I do." Then a touch to his throat, even softer, and a smile he can feel all the way through him like the first unfurling tendrils of green ivy just beginning to root. "Merry Christmas, Fenris."

It's still snowing.


End file.
